‘About the page Maximka again,’ Sletkin went on, ‘Martin Petrovitch complains because we’ve taken him away and apprenticed him. But kindly consider the matter for yourself. Why, what had he to do waiting on Martin Petrovitch? Kick up his heels; nothing more. And he couldn’t even wait on him properly; on account of his stupidity and his youth. Now we have sent him away to a harness-maker’s. He’ll be turned into a first-rate handicraftsman--and make a good thing of it for himself--and pay us ransom-money too. And, living in a small way as we do, that’s a matter of importance. On a little farm like ours, one can’t afford to let anything slip.’ ‘And this is the man Martin Petrovitch called a “poor stick,”’ I thought. ‘But who reads to Martin Petrovitch now?’ I asked. ‘Why, what is there to read? He had one book--but, luckily, that’s been mislaid somewhere.… And what use is reading at his age.’ ‘And who shaves him?’ I asked again. Sletkin gave an approving laugh, as though in response to an amusing joke. ‘Why, nobody. At first he used to singe his beard in the candle--but now he lets it be altogether. And it’s lovely!’ ‘Vladimir Vassilievitch!’ Evlampia repeated insistently: ‘Vladimir Vassilievitch!’ Sletkin made her a sign with his hand. ‘Martin Petrovitch is clothed and cared for, and eats what we do. What more does he want? He declared himself that he wanted nothing more in this world but to think of his soul. If only he would realise that everything now, however you look at it, is ours. He says too that we don’t pay him his allowance. But we’ve not always got money ourselves; and what does he want with it, when he has everything provided him? And we treat him as one of the family too. I’m telling you the truth. The rooms, for instance, which he occupies--how we need them! there’s simply not room to turn round without them; but we don’t say a word--we put up with it. We even think how to provide amusement for him. There, on St. Peter’s Day, I bought him some excellent hooks in the town--real English ones, expensive hooks, to catch fish. There are lots of carp in our pond. Let him sit and fish; in an hour or two, there’d be a nice little fish soup provided. The most suitable occupation for old men.’ ‘Vladimir Vassilitch!’ Evlampia called for the third time in an incisive tone, and she flung far away from her the grass she had been twisting in her fingers, ‘I am going!’ Her eyes met mine. ‘I am going, Vladimir Vassilievitch!’ she repeated, and vanished behind a bush.